


share the same space for a minute or two

by shipwrecks



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Croatia NT, Dreamsharing, El Clásico, Euro 2016, FIFA World Cup 2018, M/M, arguably pwp except without that much porn, implied luka/ivan/charlie, it's horny with feelings tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23739682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwrecks/pseuds/shipwrecks
Summary: ok, captains share dreams, of course they do, and now you do—the shock starts to fade, other emotions build that feel—real, but there's something abstract about them. uncanny.tales from the vatreni dreamscape.
Relationships: Luka Modrić/Ivan Rakitić, Vedran Ćorluka/Ivan Rakitić, Vedran Ćorluka/Luka Modrić
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he finally fitfully falls asleep one evening, he's thinking about how camp nou's going to unfold. Somehow, he still doesn't expect to see Ivan practicing free kicks with the too-bright sun shining behind him—has to shield his eyes as Ivan slows his pace and turns to face him. There's a thin sheen of sweat across his brow and a grin on his face—glitters and bounces off the light.
> 
> "I was wondering when you'd show up. I don't usually practice at the bernabéu, even in my dreams. Unless you pulled me here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uhhhhhhh this idea's been simmering in me for like.. over a year lmao, but trust a quarantine (and caitlin!!!) to finally pull it out of me!! this takes place just before the first clasico of 18/19 aka the ol' 5-1 nightmare, as well as just after luka was made captain of vatreni and ivan n charlie vice-capis in august 2016. it's a universe where nt captains share dreams because it wasn't enough for dreamsharing to make luka/ivan more hurtful, i needed to truly flay myself thinking about all my captains!!!!
> 
> title is from talking heads, YES OF COURSE from this must be the place, my own personal vatreni emotional hell apparently

  


Feet on the ground, head in the sky  
It's okay, I know nothing's wrong, nothing  
Oh! I got plenty of time  
Oh! You got light in your eyes

—david byrne, _this must be the place_

  


  


  


The fortnight before _El Clásico_ brings a fizzling energy—steeped in the city who lives and breathes the rivalry, the very air holds animosity and admiration alike. Luka's tense in his shoulders, carrying the way this season's shaking out in his muscles and frustrated with what's beginning to feel unchangeable. When he finally fitfully falls asleep one evening, he's thinking about how camp nou's going to unfold. Somehow, he still doesn't expect to see Ivan practicing free kicks with the too-bright sun shining behind him—has to shield his eyes as Ivan slows his pace and turns to face him. There's a thin sheen of sweat across his brow and a grin on his face—glitters and bounces off the light. 

"I was wondering when you'd show up. I don't usually practice at the bernabéu, even in my dreams. Unless you pulled me here." 

  


  


(it starts when he's named as luka's co-captain with charlie. one moment, there was nothing particularly strange about his life—other than, you know, the usual that comes along with his job—the next, he's finding out in the most kinesthetic of ways that he can—and more importantly, will—share dreams with luka. charlie too, sometimes. captains had been doing it long before him, and yet it remained something of an odd mystery that only now in hindsight seemed so obvious. _so that explains—and how they always—_a lot of relationships suddenly making sense in ivan's mind.) 

  


  


Luka jogs over to a ball a few feet away—a moment ago nothing in its place, but now there it is—starts warming up, dribbling, instinctively moves in Ivan's direction to try and get past him. Ivan doesn't take the bait. 

"I know you're overthinking right now," is all he says. 

_Of course._ Ivan can feel what's going on with him—never mind that they're at the bernabéu, which certainly implies this whole thing is on him. 

"I'm not gonna just let you run me over without talking about it—and _something's_ up." 

Luka shrugs, takes himself and the ball away like that's that on that. Ivan chuckles—_uh-huh_—not unkind, just knowing in a funny way. There were people in Madrid who perhaps knew him better, in some respects—but club and country were different, and—well, they'd been doing this for more than two years now. The only way he was going to actually convince Ivan was to believe it himself. 

  


  


(_ok, captains share dreams, of course they do, and now you do_—the shock starts to fade, other emotions build that feel—real, but there's something abstract about them. uncanny. he reads luka's face and connects the dots between what's currently in his head and how he'd interpret his expression. _Oh._ they're luka's. 

_you'll get used to it_, luka says like he knows what ivan's thinking—_he does_, or rather, he has some idea of what ivan's feeling—says so easily, unbothered by the whole situation. _right—this isn't new to him._ he did this with darijo. _dreams, they_—luka continues, tapping a ball over to him casually as he talks—_blur the lines. between you and me._

ivan does something that falls squarely in the middle of a cough, a choke, and clearing his throat—though he manages to trap the ball under his foot, likely muscle memory rather than any presence of mind. they'd—_blurred the lines_ between them before. in vienna. in zagreb, after the andorra qualifier—light with the win, the goals, but an undertow of something heavier too, the missed penalty, the way they're learning to always wait for the other shoe to drop. in paris _and_ saint-étienne. other places he's forgetting, less loaded. ivan passes the ball back and twists his head to look around. _maksimir_, luka says, but ivan doesn't need him to. he recognizes the atmosphere immediately—even empty, just the two of them.) 

  


  


Ivan ignores the way he's being petulant, _suit yourself_—moves back to taking free kicks like—not like nothing's happened, but not indulgent either. And he's definitely prodding at Luka's edges, trying to discern more than he's been given, albeit tentatively—certainly not jabbing as hard as Charlie ever did. It's frustrating—they didn't often end up in one another's dreams apropos of anything but the team they captained together. Showing up in each other's club lives, where their club lives intertwined—not a whole lot bent Luka out of shape, but the timing feels odd, the last year of his life chopped and screwed in his head—white and red and blue, winning and losing, spanish and croatian running together in strange sentences. 

"Well yeah, something's up. What're we doing here?" 

Ivan launches a ball from a particular angle—hits the netting dead center, like it's easy—and then looks at Luka with a smile. It's humored and slightly mischievous—a whole summer with Charlie, after all—too bright, here. 

"Nice try—_talk_." 

He uses this opportunity to tap the ball out from underneath Luka's foot—moves past him elegantly and—_again_—neatly sends it into the back of the net. Luka starts running forward, ball unfurling down his path, and dodges Ivan towards the goal. He too gives it a punt—it flies just high, hits the crossbar and bounces back to his toe like a boomerang. He lets out a _Hmpf_—amused even if irritated, the way you had to be here. Dreams were always trying to teach you something, and they seemed to get a particular thrill from doing so at your expense. Ivan's looking at him expectantly—a feat considering he's also concealing laughter behind his hand. 

"Fine, fine. It's—" Luka sighs. "I don't know what it is," he eventually finishes with a chuckle. 

_Talk through it_—that had always been Ivan's way to work on and decide anything. In that regard, he took to this whole thing, meeting here no warning, rhyme or reason—_well._ Luka couldn't really say no reason. It untangled itself eventually—_Never mind that you're mainlining your feelings back and forth_—he thinks wryly, as he properly faces Ivan and moves closer to him. 

"It's been a weird year, especially with how this season's going. I...it's complicated to explain. The world cup...was surreal and yet—it wasn't. Or—not because I didn't think we could do it, anyway. Well, more than any of us usually think that—it was complicated," he repeats that word, even if it doesn't quite say what he means. "And after winning champions league—" 

"_Again_" Ivan interrupts, but it's not bitter. That's not what it's for. 

"Again," he acknowledges with a small laugh, "but now—now we're...you've seen the recent results. I don't understand, and I don't know what I can do about it, I mean, other than my job, but…" and here, he pauses, finally lets his voice shape into the defeat he's been feeling. "But it doesn't feel like enough. It clearly _isn't_ enough. Nothing's changing." 

Ivan grins at the sudden, if halted, onslaught—_gotta drag you into dreams to get you to say anything sometimes._ Tips himself backwards—slowing until he floats down to lightly hit the field, as if the grass were a cloud. He rests on his elbows, looking up at Luka, with the slightest nod to the spot next to him. Luka takes a seat, giving his leg a kick on the way down for good measure. 

  


  


(_it'll usually happen around international break, when we'll play together next_, luka explains. _sometimes between matches_. he tightens and his eyes flash up to ivan's, though they don't linger. _sometimes it just happens._

ivan's own eyes widen—_it just_—luka's whole self flares, as if the words _well, i can't control it_ aren't enough to explain how he's just the messenger, living the message. he meets ivan's gaze, something almost apologetic in his face, and errantly kicks away the ball, eventually slowly rolling into the goal. _it just happens_ is all he says, with a shrug. ivan tries to relax himself—he feels like he needs to keep himself level in his approach as co-captain—if for no other reason than to balance out charlie—but all of this—it's too—he can suddenly _feel_ the pressure he's been trying to ignore, reverberating through the giant empty stadium and rattling between him and luka. his head's spinning. he feels like he's back in zadar, on a swaying boat with luka, almost a decade ago—dizzy with waves and the unknown, learning an entirely new world.) 

  


  


"I'm not captain at Madrid, I can't—and it's not even that I want—I just don't feel like I can do enough, the way I could if it was…When you're captain, all you do is hope you're saying and doing the right things for your team. But if you're not, you don't even get to try, you know?" 

Ivan makes a noise of agreement, though says nothing. He knows Luka's finally trying to verbalize something that's been taking up too much space in his head, unaddressed and nebulous. Luka is incredibly grateful for this awareness, the way he knows when to press and when to leave space. 

"It's like...there's nothing I can do _and_ it's my fault. Even if I know it's not, really, or not entirely—it can feel like it. I know the rest of them feel like this too. Some of them _should_ feel like this, they're—but what some fans say...they're worse than the pundits." 

"Of course they are. It's not their job to watch you play, they decided to do that for a much more important reason." 

He makes an amused sound but then lets out a long deep breath and slumps into the field loosely. Looks up at the perfect blue sky that's taunting him a little bit, just says, "So now, here—I guess, it's just...weird. To be reminded that I have—_this_ for some of it, but not all of it." 

He turns his head to face Ivan, already looking over at him like he's missed something incredibly obvious. 

"You're here right now, aren't you?" 

Ivan, so simply, raises a hand to his jaw, rests it there softly. Luka does not instinctively lean into the touch—but fingers push into his skin so he tilts his head, lets them press more insistent. Closes his eyes to fix upon the pressure, the electric charge that cracks when they finally touch here, every time—like Ivan's easy disposition can spark and be shared between them. He lets out a sigh, that bounces against Ivan's hand back to him. He feels everything he's carrying, letting weigh him down, in the breath—but the weight's lifting. 

Ivan pushes himself up from the field to straddle his legs and lean over him, a pointer finger casually twisting a lock of hair around itself, idly giving a tug. Luka feels himself go pliant in the grip—when he pulls harder, when Luka lets out that first breathy moan and starts to arch his back, Ivan beams. _it's okay_—each little dot of pain in his scalp says, _you can have what you want. it's okay._

  


  


(_ivan—raketa_—luka's voice cuts through static and he follows the wire of it, back to himself—_you'll be fine. you're gonna be—we'll be okay. you'll figure out all this_—waving a hand through the air, motioning at it all around them. 

_maybe—_he thinks, dazed under luka's sudden focused stare, moving closer to ivan. _you'll have to train yourself, to stop chasing the ball_—ivan quirks his head—_not latch on to the stuff you're getting from me, from here, easy way to lose control._ he's amused though, and his laugh rumbles deep in ivan, nestles under the skin, as he claps a hand on ivan's shoulder. the weight's lifting—steadied by the textures of maksimir, the grounds that first greeted him like he'd been there before, the way the air always seems to whisper _welcome home_. he matches his breath to rounds of imaginary chanting fans, filling the stands, shouts and songs ringing out distantly until they hum into silence. 

luka tips them forward, ivan's feet going out from under him easily—falls onto the grass with a thud as luka's able to slow himself so that he lands lightly over ivan. an unfair advantage he's going to have to learn. _this can happen too sometimes_—luka rumbles low in his ear, chin gesturing to the two of them—ivan feels like his heart is suddenly so loud, it must be pounding on surround, out the stadium speakers.) 

  


  


Luka pushes himself up to Ivan hanging over him. When their mouths meet, when his hips roll into him—this time, instinctively—a jolt shoots up him like his spine's a lightning rod. Kissing Ivan is easy—he spent most of last summer—frantic, heated, hands everywhere—_sometimes ivan's hands, sometimes_—humming with restless energy, only anchored down by their exhaustion. Now though—now he wants to make room for all the time in the world, he feels spent and empty—lets Ivan pour something warm and reverent into him honey-slow. His mouth moves along Luka's jaw—stops where each pad of his fingers had been—down his neck, teeth graze soft skin and close around his pulse. His body's liquid, melting into the grass but for Ivan's determined hand grasping at his hip, keeping him solid. 

A rough tug of his hair, with the hand Luka'd completely forgotten was wound in there—the one at his hip grazing lower, fingers trailing just beneath his shorts. With each pull, each bite, the knot of him loosens, makes itself easier for Ivan to unravel. Luka tips his head back, now resting on his palms, each blade of grass defining itself as he presses further into the field. Falls down onto his back under Ivan's hand after he pulls Luka's shirt off in one easy fluid motion. 

  


  


(for some reason, luka poised over him, ivan thinks about euros—they're so good, all of them, but some of this is up to forces beyond their control—_perhaps much further beyond than any of us realized_—never quite on their side. ivan will never not hope for something more, doesn't matter how many times it happens, will always see the sun shine on _want_ and _possible_—but that doesn't mean the shirt isn't heavy on his back with history beyond his own. the mantle he's taking up, what will probably be the last push of his—he carries it, has let it fill up his heart and pound out loud—a beat that keeps time for the both of them under ivan's shirt, under the crest, under luka's hand. 

luka smiles, quickly, before he leans in—pushes him down flat as he kisses him, licks into his mouth. he can hold him pinned to the grass beneath him—ivan shivers at the thought and suddenly pulls more than a little desperately at his hem—brushes his knuckles against him, running low along his hips. luka settles a knee between ivan's legs, skimming the inside of his thigh and drawing a breath. he laughs into ivan's mouth, grabs a little tighter, dusts bites and messy kisses down his neck—catches the collar in his teeth alongside delicate skin. 

ivan tries to wriggle himself out of his shirt while still fumbling at luka's hip, awkwardly grasping at kit fabric and not enough skin. luka definitely looks too pleased at all this, but he slips a hand from ivan's chest to help it off. pulls his own over his head, grabbing from the back of the neck—hair disheveling and a stray lock falling over one eye, lighter than usual and stark against his recently-tanned skin. ivan's fingers dip below and above the waistband of luka's shorts, a move that's somehow both tentative and eager.) 

  


  


Ivan goes down on him, lets him push blunt nails into his skin and pull his hair, push his hips against him, not particularly carefully. He sees pink behind his eyes—the haziest afternoon sun, impossible _here_ and yet— 

Ivan lifts his head and looks thoughtful, "football is...like this sometimes." 

Luka cranes his neck up, an exasperated but humored sigh, _Hm—_

"She's fickle, needs a lot of work for some things to feel effortless—rewards _and_ punishes loyalty—can feel like she's playing a trick on you, sometimes she is" he says, the accompanying shrug somehow conveying more conviction. 

Even if stopping midway through giving someone head to dispense football platitudes is a classic Charlie move, this one's all Ivan. Of course football's a _She_—enamoring and personal, Ivan always trying to do whatever he can for her. Luka laughs around _yeah, I think you're right_ and rests his head back down on the grass. Ivan murmurs _she'll be nice to you soon enough, don't worry_ into his hip, takes him into his mouth again, wrings one last bit of tension out of him—pink shocks his vision and light floods his veins. 

  


  


(they manage to get their shorts off just enough for luka to take them both in his hand—ivan feels a strange burst of youth, a sudden energy of _NowNowNow_—flings his head back against the grass when luka speeds up. he's—_fuck_—he's close— 

luka dips his head, mouths at his shoulder, down his chest—sinks his teeth around skin and draws a bruise over ivan's heart. ivan can't warn him—just scratches desperately at luka's hip as he comes. 

_you'll figure out all this_—luka says again, lying next to him later. _and i'll always be here too. or—i suppose it could just be charlie. but—someone'll be here_—which does make ivan feel somewhat better. _there's a rumor that one captain figured out how to get here by himself_—ivan looks over at him, bewildered—_just between captains, one of the few ways we acknowledge this across teams, actually,_ he adds, as an explanation. _i bet it was a keeper, if it's true—they're a different breed, you know_—and ivan chuckles in agreement. he's still a little overwhelmed by it all, but he can already feel himself settling in a bit. it certainly wasn't the first time he'd plunged into something—exciting and brand new—luka next to him, laughing as they sink underwater.) 

  


  


"I wonder why Charlie's not here." 

Luka props himself up on an elbow and looks at Ivan incredulously. 

"If you must know, I was thinking about clásico before I fell asleep, so that's probably why…" he trails off, Ivan giving an _aha_ nod with a grin—_why we're here, huh_. "Besides—I'm not enough for you?" 

He gives Luka's shin a light kick before he answers "because Charlie actually did captain both his teams. At the same time, I mean. Oh, and 'cause of our legendary rivalry, of course. We need a referee just to talk, if you listen to some journalists." 

"May be a stretch to call them journalists. Or you my nemesis. True though, about Charlie. Wonder what he'd tell me to do." 

"Just say what you want to say anyway. Tell anyone who'll listen to fuck off with their doubts and complaints and shit," Ivan suddenly speaking in Charlie's voice, reminding Luka _here_ is a place none of them fully understand in a way the emotion passing didn't always. The words don't sound wrong in his timbre though. 

"Yeah, I bet he would. He was the spokesman for some of our worst impulses before we even gave him leadership." 

"Maybe he'll be able to tell you himself soon. He can commiserate with you, if we kick your ass. Maybe even give you some pity head." 

"_If_—" giving Ivan a playful shove, "_we_—" placing a hand to his own chest, "kick your ass, you'll get Charlie to fuck you just to cheer you up." 

Ivan launches onto him, but his face is ebullient as he does—it's not serious, and it ends in Ivan half-sliding off him and lazily pressing kisses along his neck and shoulder. It feels good to banter—pride growing by sheer virtue of someone else talking shit. Luka looks up at the perfect blue sky, darkening as the sun dips below the horizon—an inversed sign that morning was coming. It'll be easy to fall asleep under the sunset—mild evening air, field beneath him welcoming as it always is, Ivan's heart beating, a steadying presence against his ribs. 

  


  


  


  


In the tunnel, they greet each other like they always do—though Luka does wonder if Sergio and Busquets have ever had to deal with what they did—_probably not in the way we did but—you just never know_—which all amuses him, in a fortifying way. 

It goes about exactly as bad as he could have expected, maybe even worse—and he's frustrated, disappointed, incredibly so—he'll spend the next week sulking at his place, only leaving to find new ways to get to training unnoticed. Now though—now he walks up to Ivan on the field—pulling his jersey over his head to wipe the bitterness off his face, the corners of his mouth lifting along with his chin to meet Ivan's gaze. 

"Tell anyone who'll listen to fuck off," Ivan whispers into his ear as they hug—in his own voice, jarring but nonetheless making Luka laugh. 

  


  


  


_Life isn't, and has never been, a 2-0 home victory after a fish and chip lunch_

— fever pitch, nick hornby

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the fUnNiEsT part...they absolutely kept shitting the bed even after that humiliating clasico!! hala madrid y nada mas lmao


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ideas freewheel between them like clouds—hazy, half-formed. Overhead, it's slightly overcast, a little humid—blades of grass stick to his legs, he sees a bead of sweat gather and roll down Ivan's neck from behind his ear. He inches himself forward surreptitiously as Ivan's not paying attention, eventually able to slide the toe of his boot just up the fabric of Ivan's shorts, a playful entreaty. Ivan snaps his head to meet Charlie quickly, but his grin grows broader.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> glennifer, back at it again w the vatreni dreamsharing!! once again, not as filthy or looked over as i meant it to be, but my ao3 is truly the dumpster i live in so why not just post all my trash
> 
> also if i never wrote charles in the dreamscape i'd never forgive myself

  


  


"It's gonna be you soon," Charlie says, sitting next to him, leaning back to rest on his palms. 

Luka knows what he's talking about, even if he's being strangely oblique. Of course he does—euros are over and they're here, Darijo was only going to stay through this, however long it—he's been dreaming with him without Charlie, talking about it. 

"Hm?" he replies anyway. 

Charlie smiles, a laugh in his voice, "don't fuckin' _Hm_ me! You know what I'm talking about!" 

Luka looks mischievous as he asks, "what if I want you to say it?" 

"Oh! Of course you do—_Famous Madrid Superstar Luka Modrić Named New Captain of Croatian Football Team_. No announcement for me, FIFA doesn't know who I am." 

"Sure they do. You think they're gonna forget the concussed bloody guy who waved them off when they said you shouldn't still be on the field?" 

"What do they know, anyway?" 

"Absolutely nothing," but his voice doesn't have the same lightness. 

"Luk—" as he bumps his shoulder into Luka's, more or less anyway, "it's gonna be you 'cause it should be." 

Charlie had a way of making his opinions seem like undisputed truth and sneaking compliments into unlikely words—made all the more glowing by their surprise. 

"All the kids love you, even if most of them still seem skittish around you at training, except Mateo," he continues. "But that could be me. Or Raketa—you know how intimidating he is." 

Luka chuckles, though there's also the distant image of Mateo _here_, explaining it all to him, passing along this strange tradition. 

"You'll be fine. We always are." 

"But I'm…" Luka impulsively, emotionally says, but can't help but trail off. _not ready? not Darijo?_

"You can do it. You'll do it differently. Everyone has their own way. And if you don't try to captain as someone you're not, you'll be a good one. Probably," he ends with a shrug. Incredibly Charlie of him, to dispense precisely the right advice both casually and while also abdicating any personal responsibility if you followed it wrong. Luka looks at him incredulously, for even knowing that particularly was what was on his mind. 

"I know you really well. All your feelings—" Charlie gestures at him and around the air, "—really just help confirm." 

"Well...thanks," Luka just says, bumping his shoulder into Charlie's, more or less anyway. 

  


  


Charlie opens his eyes to the locker room of Maksimir. It's empty yet still humming with a sparkling energy. When he turns his head, there's Ivan—sitting in front of his number, a sunny smile already on his face. 

"Hm?" Charlie motions to the door with his head and Ivan nods. (Once, Luka here too, they hadn't even made it out of the locker room. But Luka isn't here too.) They walk to the field and Charlie takes a seat almost as soon as they hit grass. Ivan, out of habit, lets a ball roll in front of him and he tries to send it into the goal. It goes wide, and Charlie laughs. 

"Always with the training. Like Luka, always trying to make yourselves useful." 

"Not useful. Just good enough to be helpful," Ivan simply says. 

(Even if that's only semantics, semantics mean a lot in a sport with so much punditry. So many people who take to the game in all their myriad ways. It matters how Ivan sees himself in the grand scheme of football.) 

"Sit down," Charlie ostensibly requests, but people—for inexplicable reasons, better or worse—do what he says. Ivan sits—the two of them, limbs pouring out from the sidelines—Charlie stretched out, Ivan neatly collected in front of him, plucking at the laces of his boots, Charlie's too, like strings touched into music. Luka is the bridge between them—all those years ago—but they have found each other here, without him, before. Just once, though. After the Greece qualifiers. Now—they're narrowing in on—always trailing off in their minds until it's past, can't say it until—everybody's still a bit more superstitious than they'd ever admit. 

"Summer is going to be…" even Charlie, always the defiant rabble rouser, can't quite say it. It's not that he doesn't believe in the magic of football, the way words speak things into existence, not necessarily the words spoken—he certainly does, even if he also takes something like sick pleasure in defying old gods—but there's some places believers don't go, places lit up with signs that say _Last Chance_ and _Biggest Stage in the World_. 

"It is," Ivan agrees. Because he knows what Charlie means, even without him saying it. Ivan liked to talk talk talk through everything, but Charlie leaned into the emotion passing—why say something almost-right when you could just be what you're feeling and they'll get it. In that way, he'd taken to this, Charlie, never too proud or closed-off for another captain not to understand _why_ if they ever made it here because of Charlie. 

Funnily enough—even though Ivan _could_ tell if they were—they're not here because of Charlie. They're not here because of Ivan either. 

"Luka," Charlie states plainly. "What to do about him." 

There's nothing wrong with Luka at present, but they're on their way to—so here they are. 

Ivan looks thoughtful, still bright though, still sunny. Charlie worries at a crooked tooth with his tongue. Ideas freewheel between them like clouds—hazy, half-formed. Overhead, it's slightly overcast, a little humid—blades of grass stick to his legs, he sees a bead of sweat gather and roll down Ivan's neck from behind his ear. He inches himself forward surreptitiously as Ivan's not paying attention, eventually able to slide the toe of his boot just up the fabric of Ivan's shorts, a playful entreaty. Ivan snaps his head to meet Charlie quickly, but his grin grows broader. 

"Not everything is taken care of with—" 

"Disagree" is Charlie's official ruling. 

Ivan, later—stretched out on the field, rolling his hips, arching his back, Charlie's broad chest over him, fucking into him—lying beside Charlie, making plans for Luka, next time they're all together, no matter where it was—agrees. 


End file.
